Fire and Ice and Linoleum Knives
by pondglorious
Summary: Combination of novel and show, set years after Hannibal is caught for his crimes, leading into Red Dragon. Lots of Will/Alana, with other characters such as Abigail, Jack, and mentions of Hannibal.


**Notes: So, I don't think Abigail really died in the finale, so you'll find her in here, minus an ear. There's also a big fat gap between what happened in the finale and what's going on in this fic, but I purposefully left it vague so the reader can fill in the blanks themselves if they like. This story goes into Red Dragon, (which Hannibal is obviously based off of), and merges the show and the novel together. If you haven't read Red Dragon then basically what you need to know is that Will moves to Flordia and marries a woman named Molly, who I've replaced with Alana in this fic. Before that, Hannibal stabs Will with a linoleum knife, but he survives, but is left with a scar on his torso. That's basically how Hannibal is caught, which leads up to Hannibal being put in an insane asylum, where he is now. Okay, now cut to the part where I say read and review, please!**

**...**

The nightmares don't end, and Will doesn't expect them to. He suspects they never really will go away.

He dreams of the antlers, surrounding and trapping him until they pierce his skin and he succumbs to their sharp edges, and drowns in the blood. He dreams of a forest with trees leering, cackling down at him, having no escape and no option but to run, run, run. The stag is there, and it bucks its antlers up at him, beckoning, luring Will towards it.

In his dreams, there are endless victims. He holds cold knives against their throats, mercilessly hacking at their necks, even after the life has left their eyes. Sometimes his victims are nameless and faceless, just empty souls begging for mercy that he'll never deliver, and on the worst nights, they are Alana or Abigail, Beverly or Jack, anyone he's ever known or given a damn about at all. He dreams that Hannibal is there, and he kills them all too; Abigail and Alana and the unidentified victims, and sometimes he falters to devastation, sometimes he merely laughs, like he's the monster himself.

He kills Hannibal, too. Sometimes it's a victory; sometimes it's another fault.

He drowns in blood, in water, in fire, in ice. All the elements coincide and work against him, making sure he is the worst part of himself he could ever be.

The ghost of Garret Jacob Hobbs, the shadow of Hannibal; they're always there, silent, invisible entities that whisper to him by day and plague him by night.

But when he jolts awake at 3am with an aching heart and tortured mind, Alana is there beside him, with a body and soul ready to love him irrevocably.

…

The end for Hannibal was the beginning for them, and it was the hardest and happiest time imaginable. They both retired after Hannibal's trial, and decided to move out to Flordia, where the sun constantly shined and a beach was a few steps away and there were no reminders of the horror they were leaving behind. Alana still gave guest lectures occasionally at the local college, but Will almost never wanted to step into a lecture hall ever again. Abigail Hobbs had decided to go to school out in California; They had all needed to get away.

There had been no talk of marriage or any of the typical regulations of a relationship for Will and Alana; they both knew no vows could define or determine the depth of their bond. Children was something they both never considered; they had Abigail, and that was enough. And when he wanted to move to Flordia, there was no question of whether she would follow him. They both grew to have an unfathomable desire to escape from the bitter cold and the memory of tragedy around every corner.

...

Sometimes he'd walk the long stretch of beach, feeling the sand sink under his feet, and wade out to the water until it was above his knees and stare out to their little house by the sea, the way he used to stare at his little house in the field. The lights shone in the darkness as if to guide him back to shore, and it really was a boat lost at sea, with the water rising up and down in front of the house like it would be whisked away by the waves at any moment. The tide ebbed against his knees, the waves churning underneath him, as if they'd carry him away, too.

He was caught somewhere between needing to feel safe and forgetting the feeling; for moment as he stood among the seaweed he remembered what it was like to stand under the vast, endless sky, looking at the little lights and feeling as if the world wasn't closing in on him. It was hard to accept the physical safety in which he lived now; and with the treatment of his brain condition, the mental safety was open to him, too.

He still feared for what undiscovered demons lurked in the depths of his brain, waiting to be irked and awoken at last. The kind of demons that he caught a glimpse of at night, when his mind was free it wander itself all it liked.

...

Sometimes, like he had in court, he feels like his anger could hold the force of the world if he released it, and he could take down Hannibal just with the resentment in his heart.

But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't hate him anymore. It was all drained, and all he felt was sadness and pity.

He'd said once that to kill someone, even if you have to, is the ugliest thing in the world. And it is. It ripped away everything he was, his morals, his identity, sanity, his ability to be redeemed, and made him question any of the good left in his heart.

And to kill, for pleasure, for selfishness, for your own demonic satisfaction, is something he wishes he didn't understand. His head was full of them, the killers, the monsters that walked the earth. They were stored up in his head, grotesque beings that he feared he still could become. He was living in constant fear if his own mind, and it shouldn't be that way. Not after everything he and Alana worked for to make it a cleansed place of rational, normal thoughts.

He knew Hannibal was the worst if them all. Not only did he kill for his own sick pleasure, he then consumed them, like every human was just a pig raised for his slaughter. He in know way honored them; that would consist of leaving them to peace in their sleep, to lay their bodies beneath the ground and let whatever fate humans had after death to take over. He killed because he could, because he was powerful and manipulative and clever beyond belief, and he knew it. And he became arrogant in the end; that was his own mistake. He ended himself.

Hannibal wasn't a monster. He was the devil.

Could I still become one of his demons?

The thought ran through Will's mind everyday.

...

Abigail visits them over holidays and whenever she can. They seem to have developed a strange sort of family, knitted together through tragedy and horrors no other mind could even comprehend. Will is plagued with guilt and sorrow every time he sees her, a pale scar at her throat, an ear hacked away by the very man who saved her from the slash at her neck. It makes Will sick to his stomach to think that all he ever saw in the raven-haired girl that lay dying on her kitchen floor was an opportunity.

He tries to cling to what Alana tells him, that it's nobody's fault, but he knows she carries a baggage of guilt herself that she would never admit; she's the one who brought Hannibal into their lives in the first place. He sees it in her eyes every time she gazes at the stark red line against Abigail's ivory throat, every time she runs her fingers across the long, lumpy scar that runs across Will's stomach, reliving the horror of settling her eyes on it the first time.

They take ridiculous measures to avoid the triggering of everything they simply want to forget; they vow to become vegetarians, and avoid the meat aisles at the grocery store at all costs. They rarely eat at restaurants, for fear of encountering the blood curtling smell of pork or beef or chicken (besides, though they'd never admit it, they don't trust the cooks anyways). It becomes an unspoken promise between them to be cautious around food- for the first few days after their revelation, they could barely eat at all.

They realize the full extent that their phobia extends when Will goes out for his usual fishing trips, and catches one- but this time, doesn't decide to let it back into the sea like he normally does. He takes it home in hopes of cooking in up and making a meal out of it- but things don't go as planned. Senseless paranoia and fear get in the way.

Alana doesn't act so bothered by the idea, so he figures there won't be any problem- until they end up sitting at the kitchen counter, staring at the dead fish on a silver platter, both too afraid to make the first move.

"This is ridiculous," Will sighs after about 15 minutes of just staring at the corpse of a fish. "We've eaten fish since-"

Alana sighs and shakes her head. "Not like this." And he knows what she means- not when they've caught it and killed and then have to cut it up and cook it and eat it like it hadn't been alive, wandering around the depths of the ocean peacefully until Will came along.

They couldn't help being dramatic about it- this was their mindset now, whether they liked it or not.

"Fine," Says Alana finally, "Let's eat it. I suppose we're going to have to start by gutting it-"

"On second thought," Will interrupts quickly, "Let's order takeout instead."

"Fine by me." She answers casually.

And it goes on like that, with little things slipped into their lives that remind them of him. Remind them that no matter how far away the escape, they'll never really have escaped. He's in the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane, but he's there, laced in every unuttered word and unspoken thought, every scar, physical and mental, every cooked meal, every moment of bitterness and insanity.

…

When winter arrives on their lonely beach, Abigail comes along with it, seeming to bear the icy winds and icy winds and the sharp cold of the sea with her.

"I worry about you, sometimes." Abigail says, staring at Will from where they sit next to each other on the beach, watching the sun fade to blackness over the horizon. Her big blue eyes reflect off the ocean water, concerned.

"And I, you." He replies. He doesn't look her in the eye, simply stares out into the vast, open sky, painted with the oranges, reds, pinks, blues, and all the endless colors of sunset.

"Sometimes I wonder if you've forgiven me for what I did. You think I'm a monster."

That grabs his attention, her unexpected confession- he snaps his head up to look her in the face, to reassure her.

"Of course I forgive you." He begins quietly, "Because I know, I understand- you were confused, manipulated, afraid, just as I was. You're not a monster. We were just influenced by them...but we're not them. We're better than them, because we chose to be, and that's all that matters in the end."

She goes on in her tone of worry, one unfamiliar to both of them, as if she'd ignored him. "I've learned that the only way to be redeemed for everything I've done is to live. Not just be alive, I mean." she looks down at the sand at her feet, not daring to look into his searing eyes. "I'm afraid you're not living, Will. You act like you're okay, but...I don't think you are."

It was strange, to see Abigail this way; she was usually so reserved, acting like she was left unscatched by everything, like she didn't have a worry in the world. Her eyes were the only telltale sign of trauma in her consistent silence.

"I don't think I'm ever going to be okay, Abigail. Not after everything." Will says slowly.

"Maybe not...I know you still have nightmares. I do, too. When I close my eyes at night, I can still feel his knife pressed against my throat...but it's gotten better, because I moved on. You have to let go of them. My father and Hannibal." Will flinched at the mere mention of Hannibal's name. "I let go of them. I know it's hard, but- you have to try."

She takes his hands in both of hers and squeezes them gently. He stares down at them sadly.

"I don't know how to let go of something that's carved into my skin and branded in my bones...that infests my brain, day and night. Relentlessly." He says earnestly.

They don't say anything after that. They simply sit on the sand with their fingers still entwined, until the sun disappears completely over the horizon and they're drowned in darkness and the rhythmic ebb of the sea.

"You know what I like about you, Abigail?" Says Will after a while, "I can empathize with almost anyone, but I can never seem to find my way into your head."

A curious smile spreads across Abigail's lips. "Oh, you wouldn't want to be inside my head, Will. You have enough horrors in your own as it is."

…

Will has no idea what to feel when Jack Crawford turns up at his home, pleading for Will to assist him once again on this new case they just can't crack. Will is reluctant, even harsh towards Jack; he was never very fond of him, anyways. And he definitely doesn't owe him anything at all, though it might be the exact opposite. Jack never believed him or stuck by him in those months of chaos in which he was accused for the crimes of Dr. Lecter. In fact, he might have made it worse.

Jack tells him he simply wants him to take a look at the evidence. But there's an edge, a tilt in his voice, and he knows there's something more, something he's afraid to mention.

Will almost doesn't believe Jack had the guts to turn up on his doorstep uninvited and beg for him to come back. Alana and Abigail aren't anywhere near to being happy about it, either. They both regard Jack with an almost polite hostility and don't bother to make small talk. Alana asks him defensively why he's here, why he has to come back, why he can't just leave them the hell alone. But he dismisses the remarks, saying he's not there for her, anyways. Jack stares down Abigail in particular, and Will almost wants to automatically tell him to Fuck off and get away from my family, but he doesn't have the heart to.

Maybe that's his problem; maybe he forgives too easily. Maybe he doesn't spend the time being angry with Jack or Hannibal like he used to; now he only feels the sharp knife of pain and sadness at the mention of their names.

What catches Will's attention, in fact, is Jack's mention of Hannibal. Suddenly everything clicks in place inside his head and he thinks, oh. That's why he wants me back. Who else does Jack know that is a match for Hannibal? Who else knows him better, who else has the intimate knowledge of him that Will does? Maybe they thought he wouldn't cooperate with anyone else...and maybe it was true.

His gut wrenches and twists as much as it can without strangling itself at the thought of seeing Hannibal once again, face to face. It's horrifying, but intriguing, terrifying in every way...but he can't bring himself the loathe the idea.

Somewhere out there, in a cold cell miles and states away, Hannibal was waiting for him. He could sense it, just as tangible as the frosty air.

The only other thing that gets to him is Jack's repetition of old, worn out words: "You used to save lives, Will."

"Yeah, now I'm saving my own." He replies bitterly. And that should have been the end of it.

...

Jack tells him to at least think about it, and he does, all day and all night until his skull feels like it's swelling up from the game of tug-of-war inside his head; One side says, you moved out here for a reason, there's no way you're going back. You promised you wouldn't. It's completely insane to even be considering it. And the other side, with the weaker argument: You could save lives. Maybe seeing Hannibal could close some of the open doors in your head.

…

Alana isn't shocked when he walks in that night after Abigail has gone to bed and tells her quietly that he wants to go. She merely gazes at him with an expression somewhere between curiosity and horror.

"Abigail is leaving in a few days anyway- I could go then. It would only be a little while."

"I understand why you want to go, Will, but that doesn't mean I approve." She sighs.

"Do you really understand? Because I'm not sure I do." He says almost harshly.

She sighs, and he can already tell what an ordeal this is going to be. She stops fumbling in the sink with the dishes she was washing, but doesn't turn around to look him in the eye. He tried to keep track of the way her back rose and fell in unsteady, nervous breaths, needing something to focus his thoughts on.

At last, the words fall out of her mouth in a jumbled mess. "I think that...seeing him might give you closure. But going back to the field will only be bad, and you know that. I'm not okay with this, Will, but I know I can't change your mind. We came here to get away from it all, and I want you to remember that...and I also think it could make things worse when Hannibal doesn't give you what you want."

"I don't want anything from him, I just have to go over the case. That's all." Will replies quickly, and then mutters under his breath "I don't know what I want from him."

She turns to face him now, stepping closer until she can look him in the eyes with a sad sort of yearning. "I think you want him to care. About you. About what he did to you, about what he did to his victims, about what he did to all of us. And you're going to be just as frustrated as you were in court when all the gives you is the nonchalant attitude and satisfied smirk."

Will merely stands there and stares at her for awhile without saying anything, afraid the first thing out of his mouth will be rude, hostile to the last person he should have such attitude towards. Anger takes over again, it terrifies him like it used to, afraid he could hurt her despite the fact that she's the one who saved him.

She reaches up to rest a palm on his cheek and he leans into it, closing his eyes, cooling his red hot nerves.

"You were his puppet," she says finally.

"And he was the puppet master."

"Yes. And he still knows how to pull the strings."

Will says nothing before he tears away from her scrutinizing stare and walks over to slam the door of their bedroom on her, collapsing on the bed and hating to think that she's right about it all.

…

He can't stay angry at her, and he doesn't. Not when she comes into the bedroom sometime later in the night and undresses before laying silently beside him. She turns toward him to give him a sad look, and a fresh wave of guilt washes over him.

All he wants is to take her pain and worry away, and so he does, and for awhile they can forget about it all, and simply indulge in the blissful peace of being together. But it's a fleeting moment and they know the end of their content life here, together, is near and end. Even if it's only temporary. So they savor it best they can.

"What if this happens to you again?" She says later, running a gentle finger across the raised scar that loops around his torso, the one Dr. Lecter made with his linoleum knife. "I wouldn't be able to live with myself. I couldn't live with myself when I saw it the first time." She rolls onto her back and stares up at the ceiling. "And thanks to Freddie fucking Lounds, I didn't even see it in person first. She made sure every magazine and newspaper in the country had you plastered on every page, humiliated, like you needed any more of that in your life."

He merely looked at her profile silhouetted in the moonlight, wishing he could block his ears from her words. " I'm not going to be there to protect you this time, Will. I don't trust anyone else, especially not Jack, to take care of you. I'm not going to be able to make sure you don't get too close."

With Jack and his 'saving lives' line, and Alana with hers, it was almost like nothing's changed. Like he could still be back there on the field, with all of them, Hannibal and Alana and Jack, breathing down his neck for all their own reasons.

Will hates to think, as he's lying in the calm darkness once more, that he's ruining everything they've worked for to be happy. Alana hates it, too, just as much. But for some reason yet to be explained, they both know he's going back. They both know any choice he has in the matter is useless. Ultimately, he doesn't have a choice.

He doesn't know if he believes in fate, but he knows some force like it has already made the decision for him.

...

He thinks back on those early days, their budding friendship and growing feelings for each other, and then the hectic years of trials; his trial, Hannibal's, and the awful, inescapable mess between it all until they finally got their share of well earned peace. He remembers that night and their first kiss in his living room, and her insistence that they wouldn't be good for each other- which he knows better now more than ever, and he realizes he wouldn't want it any other way. He was able to fully devote himself to loving her and being lived in return, a capacity he never believed he had. He learned to love her not just because she could fix him, but because she was there to help him fix himself.

He learned to love her because she has refused him the night in his living room, and the way it made him want her even more. He learned to love her for the way she cried for him and let him see it, the way she was there day in and day out, her unwavering faith and determination the only thing that saved him from Hannibal's wrath. The way, such a long time later, she was the first thing he saw when he woke up in that hospital room with a fresh scar stitched at his torso. The way she looked right at home when she sat with his dogs in her lap, the way she kissed him and every horrific thing he'd seen was just a gruesome illusion, an escapable nightmare.

The way they both had to accept being loved by each other, when Alana's guilt got in the way, or Will's insecurity, and they both claimed they didn't deserve to be loved the way they were. And always they fell back on each other, because they needed that love more than they could ever admit.

It was the way she looked when the late hours of the night melted into the early hours of the morning, and all her professional composure faded away at his touch; the way their brokenness had merged together to become something strangely, inexplicably whole. The way her light skin turned to color when they lived in the sunlight, the salty taste of it, the way it turned a luminous blue when the pale moonlight skipped across it through the curtains at night. The way he could go on in his list of her flaws and perfections, and still not be able to explain the depths of which his love for her ran.

He never thought about loving another human that way; his life had always been too full of distractions. I was always something for somebody else. Someone whole, someone happy, but she made him feel like that person. Gradually, he found that everything before her had just been a bitter distraction to stop him from being just that.

...

Despite Alana's wordless protests, he departs with Abigail, and they say their goodbyes on the front steps of their little house.

Alana pulls him both Will and Abigail into a tight hug, and exchanges quiet 'I love you's' with Will, and kisses him once, lightly. He lingers at her lips for just a moment, like he wants to reassure her, but she pulls away too quickly, and he's left with the breath leaving his body and doesn't open his eyes again until moments later, when she's wishing Abigail luck in California. He wants to remind her again that it's only temporary, to not worry about him every second for the whole time that he's away, but he knows she'll worry no matter what he says. The words hang between his lips and he almost regrets not letting them escape from his thoughts as he drives away, the slight frame of his lover growing smaller and smaller as he inches closer and closer to his tormenter.

He was inching away from security, stability, but he still clung to it fiercely; it would he the only thing he had when he finally met insanity once again.


End file.
